


Ain't Too Sweet For You

by curds_and_wheyface



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF, Thor (Movies) RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Chris is eighteen, M/M, Tom is twenty nine, first time blow job
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2014-09-10
Packaged: 2018-02-16 20:02:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2282787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curds_and_wheyface/pseuds/curds_and_wheyface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom owns a bakery and Chris is his young employee who may or may not have a crush on him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ain't Too Sweet For You

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [sheilatakesabow](http://sheilatakesabow.tumblr.com/) with inspiration from [thedreamscrystal](http://thedreamscrystal.tumblr.com/) who always uses sweet treats in her photosets.
> 
> Chris looks like [this](http://curds-and-wheyface.tumblr.com/image/97090954361) in my head here.
> 
> Probably littered with typos, please feel free to point them out!

Tom hadn't really thought about 5am wake ups and eighteen hour shifts when he'd taken the plunge and committed to buying a bakery. He'd worried about the down-payment on the property, hiring help and sourcing ingredients, but he'd never considered the hours.  
   
Sarah's wedding had been the catalyst really; seeing her face as his five-tiered creation had been wheeled out of the back room to the gasps of the wider crowd. It had been a long-time hobby and passion, but it wasn't until the wedding that he'd considered quitting his admin job and making a go of it.  
   
Despite having four members of staff he still spends far too much time on his own, baking cupcakes, sweet breads and tarts in the hours before the shop opens at eight and the first sales assistant arrives, and often remaining until late in the evening if there's a big celebration cake to work on.  
   
David, his sales manager and co-baker has a knack for the baking process but always leaves the decorating to Tom, claiming a lack of artistic skill rather than just admitting to laziness.  
   
It's been almost a year since the grand - or, tiny but charming - opening and Tom has never been so exhausted in his life. Or so happy.  
   
These days when his alarm goes off at five he barely flinches, dragging himself out of bed and into a cold enough shower to wake him up, petting his neighbour's cat - Gaston - on the head as he passes the sturdy pillar between their gardens on his way out.  
   
He loves his shop. Being located on the high street meant it cost more to buy but the visibility to the public makes up for that, as does the lack of chain bakeries in the area.  
   
The shop front is made up of a large square display window - which gets filled up each morning with fresh goods - surrounded by brown brick, with a sign across the top that reads 'The Food of Love' in coloured lettering. He enters from the alleyway at the back, locking his bicycle to the lamppost and deactivating the alarm.  
   
He washes his hands and sets about baking a first batch of everything barring the cupcakes, which he always leaves until last to avoid the icing going hard by midday.  
   
The front door has a cute little bell, brass and old fashioned, that dings whenever a customer comes in. For safety reasons, the back door has an industrial alarm that makes a loud, ugly buzzing sound every time the door is opened. Tom takes delivery of his supplies at six fifteen and so, at seven thirty when he's midway through kneading a cinnamon loaf and the buzzer goes, he freezes.  
   
Pausing, he wonders how likely it would be for a small independent bakery to be robbed before seven in the morning, but just as he brandishes his oven-mitt aloft in a meagre attempt to protect himself the blonde head of his bulky, teenaged sales assistant appears around the corner.  
   
"Mornin'," he says around a yawn, his voice deeper than you'd expect.  
   
Chris is supposed to do sales only, during opening hours on weekends, so seeing him before eight is out of the ordinary. Tom stands up fully to observe him.  
   
"You don't start until eight," he says, letting the dough drop into a loaf tin.  
   
Chris shrugs, bending his knees to look into the lower oven at the first batch of cupcakes rising. He rests his hands on his thighs in a way that makes his biceps bulge. Tom's sure that most seventeen year olds don't have biceps like that.  
   
Eyeing him, Tom snaps the proofing drawer shut. "Keep your hands off the tarts."  
   
"Tom," Chris laughs, feigning shock. "That's an awful way to talk about the customers."  
   
-  
   
He's an engineering student, Chris, at sixth form in the local high school. Tom had hired him on the basis of that, impressed by his application, but his hopes that Chris would have a steady hand and an eye for decorating were dashed within weeks of hiring him and, as such, Chris works only out front now selling the baked goods rather than having a hand in making them.  
   
Tom is positive that Chris works mainly for the perks, going home every Saturday and Sunday with whatever sugary leftovers haven't sold. He's also good for testing out new recipes on because he'll eat anything without discrimination but he's got no poker face if he doesn't like something.  
   
Usually he bothers Tom about it, hovers nearby and asks if he's got any new goodies to try out on him, but today he only goes out to the front of the shop for five minutes before returning with a tape measure.  
   
"What the hell are you doing?" Tom says, hands on hips, as Chris notes down the width and depth of the table on a tiny notepad from his pocket.  
   
Chris only shrugs and goes back out into the front, calling over his shoulder, "I'm going to stack the Danish pastries in the window display, okay?"  
   
Sighing, Tom goes back to mixing his second dough. "Alright, but make it neat. And don't eat any!"  
   
He wonders if he should worry when Chris' only response is a laugh.  
   
-  
   
Tom likes Chris a little more than he's willing to let on to anyone, mostly because Chris is only seventeen but also partially because Chris sometimes looks at Tom likes he's a little bit odd.  
   
Like when he'd been working at the bakery for just under a month and asked Tom why he'd named the place _'The Food of Love'_. In response, Tom had lowered his piping bag and stood upright, to say:  
   
"If music be the food of love, play on. Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, the appetite may sicken, and so die."  
   
He'd always loved Shakespeare, had studied his works beyond the curriculum in school, but Chris had paused his chewing and levelled him with a blank expression.  
   
"Twelfth Night?" Tom had asked, feeling suddenly silly for being so dramatic. "You don't know Shakespeare?"  
   
A look of some recognition had appeared on Chris' face while he finished his slice of cinnamon loaf, and he nodded loosely. "Oh, yeah. I did Shakespeare in school. Romeo wherefore art though Romeo and all of that. I don't know the quote you just said."  
   
Tom had shrugged, sitting back down to carry on with his piping. "I'm something of a fan. Naming the bakery after the Bard was the obvious choice."  
   
Chris, nodding, had headed back out into the front in wait of customers. The shop had been silent for almost ten minutes when he'd poked his head back around the corner and said, brightly, "Hey, why didn't you just call it _To Bake or Not To Bake_?"  
   
-  
  
David doesn't usually work weekends but he has a wedding cake to finish and so he kindly comes in at ten, appearing in the kitchen with wide-eyes and an odd smile.  
   
"Hi," Tom murmurs, glancing over the rim of the reading glasses he wears for doing the delicate details. Green fondant with black lacing details to look like ivy, that's the description they'd been given by the couple - a landscape designer and her pregnant fiancée - and Tom's already started on the base layer.  
   
David puffs out his chest. "When did your weekend boy get so buff?"  
   
It's always a challenge around David not to roll his eyes. Tom drops the fine brush and sits back. "Don't call him that. He's seventeen. It sounds sordid."  
   
David gives a thumbs up to the decoration work, completely ignoring Tom's previous statement, and heads over to the ovens. "Any free for the top layer?"  
   
They talk quietly while they work, any gaps in their conversation filled by the sounds of the bell over the door and Chris' jovial interactions with customers.  
   
"Oh, nice choice. Those are my favourite," he can be heard saying to every single customer, and David laughs every time.  
   
Tom's not sure why he feels the need to stand up for Chris, but he does. "Leave him alone, he likes his food."  
   
"He likes his _baker_ ," David argues quite loudly, clucking his tongue.  
   
For the most part Tom ignores him, concentrating on the soothingly repetitive motion of painting leaves and vines around the cake, but eventually David comes to lean over him and doesn't leave despite being initially ignored.  
   
"Go away," Tom says, glancing up over his glasses again.  
   
David nods. "I will, I'm done now you just need to leave that to cool. I just wanted to say..." He pauses, leaning closer, and Tom supposes that he feels he's about to say something profound. "That chiselled Apollo out there is not here for the cakes. And seventeen is completely legal."  
   
-  
   
At midday, with the top layer still cooling, Tom goes out to check the stock outside and relieve Chris for his lunch break. Most of the tarts have sold and only a few slices of the cinnamon loaf are left, which Tom makes a mental note of while Chris finishes with his customer.  
   
"Did you bake these?" The woman says, probably older than Tom and yet flirting shamelessly with Chris all the same.  
   
He seems to like it, rouging up at the cheeks and dipping his head. His eyes crinkle at the corners a little, his cheeks dimpling, and Tom can't help but watch his profile.  
   
"He made them." Chris tips his head towards Tom. "Best baker in town. In the city. In the world!"  
   
The woman's chestnut eyes slide over to Tom but they're not warm like he expects, and there's something in the twist of her mouth, jealousy perhaps, as she says, "I'm sure he is."  
   
As she leaves she swishes her behind a little more than Tom thinks necessary, but Chris seems too busy dropping coins into the register to notice. When he reaches up to straighten the sign declaring '3 iced buns for £1!' his thick upper arms catch Tom's attention again.  
   
He would be a liar if he said that he hadn't noticed Chris getting bigger of late. More muscular. Just a week ago Tom was forced to order another batch of company polo shirts because Chris had bust the sleeve of his with his ever-growing bicep.  
   
He's groaning a lot more too, deep rumbles from his chest that distract not only the staff but also the customers, and as he dips to fetch the almost empty tart tray from the display case he lets out a long hiss.  
   
"What are you doing?" Tom asks as gently as he can as Chris pauses mid-crouch and lets out a pained moan.  
   
Eyes pinched shut, Chris cringes. "My quads are sore."  
   
It's kind of a precarious position, bent over as he is with his pert bottom sticking out in Tom's direction, and Tom really hopes that no customers come in and witness it.  
   
"What the bloody hell have you done to yourself?"  
   
"Insanity," Chris says, digging his fingers into the muscles as he looks back over his shoulder. At Tom's raised brow he continues, "it's a circuit training programme where you-"  
   
"I know what it is, Chris," Tom tuts, looking anywhere but at his arse. "And it's called Insanity for a reason."  
   
What he actually wants to say is that he's not sure intense training is recommended for teenagers who're probably still growing, but he doesn't want to patronise Chris. He remembers being young and feeling restrained by the opinions of his elders, all positive that he wasn't old enough to have such a grasp of the world.  
   
And that boy from Twilight bulked up in his teens, Tom seems to remember. Not that he'd ever admit to watching Twilight.  
   
"You could do with a massage," he says before he thinks better of it, and Chris stops rubbing his muscles and simply blinks in Tom's direction. Blushing, Tom scoffs. "Don't worry, I wasn't offering."  
   
"Oh." Chris stands up, gritting his teeth as he goes, and when he's at full height again Tom swears he looks a little disappointed. "I'll get my lunch, I guess."  
   
Tom nods stiffly, making every effort not to watch him go.  
   
-  
   
Over the next few months several things of note happen: the bakery is featured in a national bakery magazine, Tom hires his younger sister as a weekday assistant as a result of the exposure, and Chris continues to both bulk up and arrive an hour early on Saturdays to help with the display. He gets pretty good at it, to the point where Tom doesn't have to come out and fix it when he goes for a toilet break.  
   
Everything is going so smoothly that Tom is just positive things are due to come crumbling down around him.  
   
-  
   
In his youth Tom had loved decorating cakes. Fairy Cakes, in particular, were his favourite; his mother's home filled to the brim with tiny cakes decorated in various colours and flavours.  
   
As a professional he prefers the big cakes to the hundreds of 'cupcakes' he has to produce daily, but that's just something that comes with the territory. Decorating cupcakes is now more of a chore, and that's one of the only things Tom regrets about making his passion into a business.  
   
His system is to lay them out in a line to cool while the next batch goes in, and then he walks to and fro with the piping bag squeezing patterns of buttercream onto each cake. Standing doesn't really afford him as steady a hand as he'd like and so he's forced to pop a pre-made sugar paste decoration on top to hide any untidy work.  
   
He's always grumbling about it, always caught cursing under his breath as he squeezes another icing bag to bursting...and then, one afternoon after meeting Sarah for brunch, he heads into the back and finds a large, round contraption in the middle of his work bench.  
   
"What's that?" He immediately says to David, staring at it suspiciously from the doorway. It looks like something from a steam punk movie, all light wood and brass-coloured metal, visible cogs and bolts. Almost spider-like, it has numerous curved legs that disappear beneath it only to remerge from the centre like a fountain, each of which is dotted with little wooden cups.  
   
Instead of coming into the back David simply shouts from behind the counter, which Tom has asked him not to do. His voice is filled with suggestion. "Chris came in with it during lunchtime."  
   
There's a small note in one of the cups which Tom steps forward to take, noting that the cup sways back and forth like the carriage of a ferris wheel.  
   
 **'This is my course project. Mr Allan gave me a distinction for it. I hope you like it too.  
\- Chris'**  
   
Tentatively, Tom reaches out towards the lever at the side and cranks it towards himself. It's stiff at first, the whole thing groaning lightly, but then it gives and Tom watches in amazement as the entire bottom row of cups shifts underneath while the second row moves into its place. Each leg is a loop, he realises,  and each crank of the lever moves it along one place.  
   
On further inspection he realises that the entire machine spins manually too, which would allow him to sit in one place and decorate row by row, moving on to the next with just a pull of the lever.  
   
"I didn't play with it but I really wanted to," David says from the doorway, sounding altogether like a five year old looking at a toy fire truck.  
   
Tom bites his lip, cranking the lever again. "It's amazing, right?"  
   
"Right." David nods, reaching out to prod a cup with his finger and watching it swing. "I thought he was a bit simple, honestly, but he's clearly not is he?"  
   
It's the ugliest, most beautiful thing Tom has ever seen and he can't resist cranking the lever just a few more times until the note comes back to the top.  
   
He hums. "Do you think I have to give him a raise now?"  
   
Helpful as ever, David shrugs. "I think he'd probably prefer a blowjob."  
   
-  
   
They don't need any more cupcakes outside but Tom puts a batch of twelve in anyway, planning to drop them at Chris' house on the way home once he's had a chance to use the machine.  
   
He's so used to standing that it takes ages to get the height of the stool right, but once he does it's the most comfortable set of cupcakes he's ever decorated, never having to move from his position except to refill the piping bag.  
   
It's impossible not to think of what it means. Of course, there's every chance that Chris just needed a project and took inspiration from Tom's complaining, but there's also the very real possibility that David is right. That his teasing has been based on observation rather than on a desire to wind Tom up for hiring a pretty, young guy with no baking or sales experience.  
   
Which also begs the question; if David is correct and Chris does inexplicably have a crush on him, what is Tom going to do about that?  
   
He's lost in his thoughts, decorating the last cake on autopilot when Chris' voice sounds from the open doorway.  
   
"Do you like it?" He looks inordinately pleased to find Tom using it, hands shoved deeply into his pockets in a way that curves his shoulders in as if he's feeling almost shy. "I know it takes up quite a bit of the workbench but I couldn't make it any smaller without the cakes getting smushed in the middle. And-"  
   
"It's perfect," Tom holds up a sugary hand to stop him. "Chris it's absolutely perfect."  
   
A little shrug, and then Chris pulls a hand free to brush a piece of hair behind his ear. "Thanks."  
   
"Thank _you_ ," Tom turns back to the machine, shaking his head. "You really are an engineer, aren't you?"  
   
Chris scratches bashfully at the back of his neck like he doesn't know what to do with his hands. There's a backpack slung over his shoulder and Tom realises that he must be on his way home from class. In a rush, he swirls icing onto the last cupcake and grabs a box to deposit them all in.  
   
"For you," he says, holding it out with the lid open so that they read "THANK YOU" with a smiley face between the words and a couple of plain ones either side.  
   
It's worth the extra piping just to see the smile broaden impossibly wide on Chris' face. "Aw, you didn't have to do that."  
   
Tom waves a hand. "Nonsense, it was an hour's work." Motioning back to the machine he shakes his head again. "This must've taken you ages."  
   
Chris doesn't deny it, and all of a sudden Tom remembers him taking measurements months before.  
   
"It was dual purpose, really," Chris says, sticking his finger into the icing of one of the plain cakes and lifting it to his mouth. His tongue reaches for it as his lips part, flicking out across the blue sugar, and Tom forces himself to look away before he can close his lips around it. He smacks his lips when he's done. "I had to make something for my project and I wanted to make something for you, so it worked out nicely."  
   
Immediately after finishing he gathers another finger full of icing, and when Tom shifts his eyes to look away again he finds David in the doorway attempting to simulate a blowjob.  
   
-  
   
There are other things aside from the thoughtfully designed decorating device that maybe should've tipped Tom off. The lingering looks, waxing lyrical to customers, the ridiculously over the top moans of pleasure that erupt from Chris whenever he gets his mouth around one of Tom's creations.  
   
Still, at twenty nine Tom feels all too aware of the big three-oh creeping up behind him, and has resolved that a fling with a teenaged employee is the last thing he needs.  
   
That's not to say it's the last thing he _wants,_ though, and as a result he perhaps spends more time watching Chris than he should. He finds that he likes Chris' hands. They're sturdy and large and look more suited to kneading bread than to sketching designs and building intricate machines with tiny screws. It's almost an orgasmic image in Tom's mind, the thought of putting Chris to work in the kitchen kneading, shoulders shifting and muscles making easy work of the stubborn dough, and so he makes every effort to keep him at the front of the shop to avoid glazing over into any embarrassing fantasies.  
   
It's a Wednesday when Tom reaches up to crank the next batch of cupcakes forward and the lever jams; a loud jarring sound followed immediately by the tinkling sound of a small metal piece falling through the inside.  
   
"Oh no," he whispers, sitting up to try and crank the lever again. It's completely stuck, moves barely an inch before stopping again, and Tom can do nothing but watch the bare cupcakes swing unhappily in their perch. "Fuck."  
   
-  
   
Emma pretty much salivates at the sight of Chris. He's come straight from his mid-week apprenticeship placement despite Tom telling him there was no real hurry, and now he's tinkering with the device in a white shirt and dark grey work trousers while Tom and Emma crowd the doorway to observe him.  
   
"You can probably go and serve customers, Emma," Tom says, unimpressed with the way she's fixating on Chris. It's not jealousy, he tells himself, it's just that he doesn't want her to make Chris feel uncomfortable.  
   
She scoffs at him. "What customers? No, I need to...I need to watch this in case it breaks again."  
   
The implication that she'll fix it is an entirely ridiculous one, and Chris seems to think so too because he doesn't even acknowledge the comment. He's hunched over the machine with one arm reaching around the back of it and one operating the tiniest screwdriver Tom has ever seen. Quite frankly it looks like it should snap in Chris' large hand. His white shirt is stretched across his wide shoulders due to the hunch, making the shifting of his muscles really obvious beneath. It's so near to Tom's bread-making fantasy that he considers busying himself elsewhere.  
   
"Ah, found it," Chris grunts eventually, tilting the machine and shaking it just slightly until the tiniest screw falls out of the bottom and into his hand. Within minutes he's got it screwed back in to place and when he sits back to crank the lever the cups shift like nothing was ever wrong.  
   
It must be quite startling to turn around and find the two of them just crowded there staring at him, but Chris only smiles and claps his hands together.  
   
"Thank you so much," Tom says in a rush, almost leaping forwards to put himself between Chris and his sister. "You really didn't have to rush over here, it's so kind of you. I'll pay you for the time."  
   
Chris smiles. "Don't be silly, it was just a loose screw. Anytime it needs looking at just give me a call."  
   
He looks so earnest that Tom isn't sure he has the willpower to stop himself from kissing him, so he heads out to the front of the shop. It's only as he gets there he realises he must appear to be ungratefully ushering Chris out.  
   
"Do you want to take some cinnamon loaf? Or a tart?" He resists gesturing towards Emma.  
   
Already slipping his bicycle helmet over his head Chris politely declines, patting himself on the stomach as if to indicate that he eats too much even though it's plainly obvious that he's equipped with six pack abs.  
   
He's never refused cake, and so Tom has to concentrate hard on not frowning at the rejection. "Well, thanks again. I promise to be more gentle with her in future."  
   
The corner of Chris' mouth lifts as he snaps the strap in place beneath his chin. "Her?"  
   
Tom isn't entirely sure he manages not to blush. Instead of replying verbally he just nods and shrugs, making a show of neatening the few items left in the display case as Chris slips outside.  
   
As soon as the door clicks shut Emma smacks him on the shoulder, demanding, " _That's_ Chris? Why haven't I seen him before? Why would you keep that to yourself?"  
   
"Ow!" Rubbing at the stinging skin, Tom moves around the other side of the counter so she can't reach him if she decides to do it again. "I'm not keeping him to myself, he's weekend staff. You told me never to expect you to work of a weekend because you didn't want this job to, and I quote, get in the way of your blustering social life."  
   
"He is ridiculous. _So_ hot," Emma says, taking a violent bite out of a spiced orange bagel. While she chews she watches avidly as Chris bends to undo the lock on his bicycle.  
   
Forcing himself to lay a disapproving look on his sister rather than give in to his own desire to stare at Chris' arse, Tom crosses his arms over his chest. "You realise that he's seventeen?"  
   
Without looking away, Emma shrugs. "Age is just a number, it's all about how you feel...and I bet he _feels_ at least twenty one."  
   
-  
   
Like they do for all of the staff there is a small collection for Chris' birthday. Tom puts the most money in, buys the card and bakes a cake, and everyone throws a little extra in when they sign the card. It always looks a little bare with only the four other names, but Chris has the widest smile as he reads it all the same.  
   
It's only supposed to be Tom, Chris and Beverley - the divorcee who works three afternoons a week - but David and Emma come in specially for it because it's his eighteenth and they don't trust him to leave them any cake. If anyone notices that it's a size bigger than the birthday cakes Tom usually bakes they don't mention it.  
   
They light the candles even though it's daylight and Chris blows them out all in one go with his eyes squeezed tightly shut. When he opens them again they land directly on Tom, oddly intense for just a second before softening as he smiles. Tom feels something flutter deep in his stomach.  
   
"I'm going to The King's Fleet pub tomorrow night with some guys from Sixth Form and my placement," Chris tells them all, shrugging. "It's not really a party, it's just...you know, drinks with friends. I'd love it if you guys could make it."  
   
Immediately Tom envisions a pub corner full of rowdy teenagers and confused trainee engineers, all wondering who the old baker is and why he's even there. As much as he'd like to celebrate Chris' birthday with him, his intention is to beg off, claim that he's busy.  
   
Emma grins at Chris and loops her arm through Tom's as if she's speaking for the both of them. "We'll definitely be there."  
   
Eyes pinching happily, Chris nods. He turns to Tom specifically when he says, "Don't worry, my older brother came over from Aus with his family last week, so he'll be there. He's more your age."  
   
Any lingering warmth that Tom had felt from presenting the cake trickles away down his spine and is replaced by creeping mortification.  
   
It must show in his face because Chris immediately lifts his hands and blurts out, "No! Not that I think you're old, that's not what I meant, I just...I thought you might not come if it was just a bunch of people my age, and I want you to come. You will come, right?"  
   
And right then Tom can't imagine anything he wants to do less, but of course he nods and attempts to press his mouth into the vague shape of a smile.  
   
-  
   
He spends the next week feeling a little deflated, wondering how he ever convinced himself that a young, handsome guy like Chris could have feelings for him. He's never suffered from low self-esteem but he spends the days leading up to Chris' night out feeling weighed down by his inadequacies, dreaming up all sorts of scenarios that would allow him to excuse himself from attending.  
   
Between them David and Emma almost drag him there, arriving early enough to bully him into wearing nicer clothes. He feels oddly nervous in the taxi but doesn't mention it, and so when the three of them pile out of the car he has to take a deep breath before going inside.  
   
Chris greets them by the bar with a jovial cheer, introducing them to his brother, his sixth form buddies and the guys from his engineering apprenticeship. Tom can't remember all of the names, but everyone seems nice, and Chris' brother Luke pulls him aside right away to tell him how much he enjoyed the birthday cake Chris brought home.  
   
Seven years older than Chris, he stands about a head shorter but with shoulders just as wide. His blue eyes are much bigger than Chris', his nose shorter and more button-like. Tom finds it hard to believe that they're related, aside from the fact that they both gesture wildly with their hands while they talk.  
   
They drink beer and Tom asks questions about Australia, about why Luke didn't follow the rest of his family across to the UK, and Luke pulls out his phone and shows him a picture of his wife.  
   
"Ah," Tom nods in understanding. "Love."  
   
Luke laughs. "Isn't it always?"  
   
Eventually Chris comes and stands between them with his hands on each of their shoulders but doesn't interrupt their conversation. He smells good, Tom notices, a kind of spiced cologne which permeates the air between them as he sways slightly on his feet to the music.  
   
"You need something, Chris?" Luke asks after a while, smiling at Tom as he sips his beer.  
   
Chris shrugs. "Want to buy me a drink?"  
   
He seems to think that Luke will rebuff him but his brother only shrugs and waves down the attention of the barman. While he's asking for another round Chris leans slightly closer to Tom.  
   
"He's not talking about me, is he?"  
   
Tom nods solemnly. "Oh yes, all of the most embarrassing things you've ever done or said out loud."  
   
It's a lie, and Chris laughs but at the same time he doesn't look entirely sure that Tom is joking. He slides his eyes to Luke with a tiny frown just as the bartender plants three pints before them.  
   
"Thanks, bro," Chris says as he takes it, shifting his eyes between them. "Talk in a bit?"  
   
When he's gone, Luke laughs a little. "I don't know if you're aware, but you're kind of the object of his affections."  
   
It's such a casual statement, said with a laugh, that Tom isn't quite sure how to respond. He feels shamefully relieved to find that he wasn't in fact imagining Chris' crush, but isn't sure what to make of the confirmation coming from Chris' brother.  
   
If Luke had seemed suspicious or worried then Tom would've gone ahead with all-out denial but there's nothing apparent except amusement.  
   
"I thought it was probably just the cakes," Luke continues, sipping his beer and looking over at Chris with his friends. "Most people eat for survival but Chris eats for genuine pleasure, you know?"  
   
Humming in agreement, Tom chances a glance over at Chris - wearing jeans and a nice jacket over a navy t-shirt, bits of hair hanging in front of his eyes that he keeps sweeping back with an open hand - before turning his attention back to Luke.  
   
"But, having met you, I guess I can see why it might be more than the cakes. You're alright."  
   
Tom takes a long sip of his beer, thinking hard about his answer. "He's a really great employee. Hard working and good with customers."  
   
He was hoping to abate Luke's amusement but it doesn't work; he laughs more, a kind of breathy wheeze, eyes pinching shut like Chris' do when he smiles. With a shake of his head he slaps Tom on the shoulder. "Smooth, mate," he laughs. "Not obvious at all."  
   
-  
   
Everybody gets progressively more drunk at a nice pace; most of them are drinking beer and nobody feels the need to taint the evening by buying shots or by binge-drinking spirits. It's the most polite eighteenth celebration Tom has ever been to, and when they ring the bell for final orders he's settled in a corner booth that affords him a nice view of the room, gently buzzing but not quite drunk.  
   
Emma is sitting beside him with a white wine spritzer - because she and David promised to open up the shop in the morning - and both of them are watching Chris' friends begin to file out, some of them wobbly on their feet.  
   
"Apparently only eighteen percent of the world's engineers are female you know," Emma says, turning her wine glass between her fingers. "I think that percentage would be higher if teenage girls knew their colleagues would be this hot."  
   
Shaking his head, Tom kicks her under the table. "The fact that you think girls should go to engineering school for the attractive boys is what's wrong with society."  
   
She makes a 'pfft' sound and kicks him back before shuffling out of the booth in favour of ambushing David at the jukebox. She bumps her hip to his and Tom watches as they bend their heads together to pick a song.  
   
Just as _Islands in the Stream_ by Dolly and Kenny begins to ring out from the speakers Tom looks over towards the bar and finds Chris heading over with two beer bottles in hand.  
   
"Hi," he smiles, sliding one across to Tom before slipping into the booth. "One more?"  
   
Tom hasn't finished his other drink but he presses his finger to the new beer to watch the condensation drip to the table. He feels oddly unsure of himself, something he's never felt in Chris' presence before.  
   
"Why not?"  
   
They share a smile and sit quietly for a moment, both watching everyone else rather than looking at each other. The bar is now empty of anyone who isn't staff or a friend of Chris', and across the room Luke is pulling on his coat.  
   
After a moment, Chris laughs a little, rubbing a hand across his mouth self-consciously.  
   
"I hope I didn't put my foot in it the other day," he says, appearing to cringe just thinking about it. "I really don't think you're old at all. I worry sometimes that you think I'm too young, you know? So I thought if you knew Luke was here you'd be more inclined to come. You like him, right?"  
   
Tom is too distracted to answer the question. "Too young for what?"  
   
Chris blinks at him. "For things. For anything. I just..." He looks down at his hands, peeling distractedly at his beer bottle. "Come on, you know I think you're really great."  
   
Reaching out to pat him on the arm, Tom laughs a little. "I think you're great too, and drunk."  
   
Chris looks at Tom's hand for a long moment before taking another sip of his beer. "M'not drunk, I'm just happy," he says, draining his bottle. Luke shouts over that Chris needs to call a cab and Chris lifts his hand in a wave before looking back to Tom. "How're you getting home?"  
   
They both head outside together to call taxis, away from the noise of the jukebox, and when Tom perches himself on the stone wall off to the side of the pub Chris follows and does the same. It's quiet outside and not particularly warm, and Tom rubs his palms together before pressing them between his knees.  
   
"Did you have a good night?" He says, turning his head to find Chris studying him.  
   
"Yeah," Chris nods, dragging the word, his voice slow and warm like syrup. "It was nice. I'm really glad you came."  
   
Tom suspects it's the alcohol talking but something about the orange streetlight up ahead paints the moment in an oddly romantic light and, even in his now-dishevelled jacket and with his hair looking oddly flat on one side, Chris looks ridiculously handsome.  
   
He isn't sure who leans in first, only that they're kissing moments later. The angle is a little odd, both twisted at the waist, and their hands clash as they each lift them to take hold of the other's jaw. Laughing, Tom pulls back to apologise, feeling silly, but Chris chases his mouth, getting to his feet to stand between Tom's parted legs and hunching to kiss him again.  
   
It's just a press of mouths at first, heavy breathing, but Chris' lips part with just the tiniest prompting from Tom's tongue and Tom has to wrap his fingers in the material of Chris' jacket to stop himself falling backwards off the wall. The angle is much better, Chris surrounding Tom with his warmth and his smell and his taste, and just as Tom starts to worry about light-headedness the pub door creaks open.  
   
"Well now," Luke calls as he steps outside, followed by Emma and David. "That is just the last thing any of us needed to see."  
   
They untangle themselves with no great rush and then Chris sits down next to Tom again while they wait for the taxis to arrive, closer than before so their elbows brush whenever Chris lifts the last dregs of his beer to his mouth.  
   
Tom staunchly refuses to look over at David or his sister, concentrating instead on the lingering tingle of the kiss and the solid press of Chris' shoulder against his. When the first taxi comes Luke ushers Emma and David inside and Tom lets out a slow breath before getting to his feet.  
   
"You booked tomorrow off, right?" He turns to Chris, trying to remember the schedule through the haze of the beer and of kissing his young employee, but Chris huffs out a laugh, getting to his feet too, and instead of answering he steps into Tom's space and kisses him solidly on the mouth.  
   
"See you tomorrow," he says, and as Tom turns to head for the taxi he struggles to keep the silly grin off his face.  
   
Luke, still holding the car door open, raises his eyebrows with a weird smile. "Night, Tom."  
   
-  
   
He doesn't remember falling asleep, but he wakes up after ten at the foot end of his bed with a bigger headache than he anticipated. It's not until he's struggling to his feet that he remembers kissing Chris and his stomach swoops giddily.  
   
When he gets to the shop he's greeted by David and Emma cheering and clapping obnoxiously, both of them midway through eating brownies.  
   
"Did you pay for those?" He asks, holding his head. Neither of them answer him because he already knows the answer.  
   
He doesn't get to feel embarrassed because aside from the clapping they don't even mention Chris, going right back to their previous conversation while he trudges into the kitchen.  
   
David has decorated one lonesome batch of cupcakes - either that or he hired a small child to do it, Tom can't tell - and left the other five batches in their baking trays beside the decorating machine.  
   
By midday the ugly cupcakes are all gone, as is David, and Tom's freshly decorated ones are in the window. Emma hangs up her apron with a smile and stands with her hands on her hips.  
   
"So," she says, rocking forward on her heels and raising her eyebrows.  
   
Tom clears his throat. "So?"  
   
He expects that she's going to make fun of him now that David has gone; he's been preparing for it since he heard him leave, but all she does is step up beside him as he kneads the bread and, leaning up onto her tiptoes, plants a kiss on his cheek.  
   
"Good for you." She brushes stray flour from his forearm. "He obviously has an awful, disgusting flaw because nobody is that athletic and handsome and nice. But if anyone deserves to find that flaw, it's you."  
   
Having the sweetest face known to mankind always gained her everyone's fondness without her having to say anything particularly nice, so Tom is extra flattered  
   
"What's my flaw?" He makes the mistake of asking, out of curiosity.  
   
"You're a perfectionist, and you use too much cinnamon in your baking." She shrugs on her coat. He's about to argue about the cinnamon but she's already out of the kitchen and heading for the door, shouting over her shoulder, "And you're a massive pervert!"  
   
Tom laughs, but only until he hears somebody clear their throat outside and realises that there's a customer waiting.  
   
Popping his head out, he attempts to smile at the woman and child standing by the display case. She looks a little bit alarmed, to say the least.  
   
"Hi. I'm not a pervert," he says, immediately cringing.  
   
The woman presses her lips together in a tight smile and Tom doesn't think he imagines the way her hand tightens around her son's.  
   
-  
   
On his own, Tom ends up running in and out every time he hears the door go, taking money from customers with floury hands and a bright smile he can't seem to turn off. He almost burns a batch of lemon tarts and, in tasting one, ends up having to serve the next customer with his mouth half full of sweetly-sour lemon curd filling.  
   
The tenth time the bell goes and he gets up to rush outside he bumps directly into Chris who is already halfway behind the counter. His heart leaps into his throat, seeming to almost double in speed, and his stomach twists with nervousness.  
   
But then Chris smiles lazily and yawns, "Mornin'."  
   
"It's half past twelve," Tom manages to laugh, moving out of Chris' way so he can head into the back to hang his coat and put on his apron.  
   
Instead of watching, which he thinks would be awkward, Tom moves back to his workbench and picks up the loaf tin he was greasing ready to put a dough in the oven. He feels Chris move up behind him and lean on the bench just to his right.  
   
"What're you making?"  
   
It's not as if Chris has never paid interest in Tom's baking methods, but it still seems like an entirely see-through move intended only to put them in each other's space. Tom bites his lip to stop from smiling.  
   
"Spiced bread," he says, knocking the proofing drawer open with his foot and allowing the smell to waft out.  
   
Chris makes an interested sound, leaning over to look as if he might find something fascinating inside the expanding dough. "Mmm, cinnamon," he moans, and Tom thinks _take that, Emma_. When Chris knocks the drawer shut gently he doesn't move away, and Tom has to angle his head oddly to look up at him.  
   
"Is there something you want?" He asks, hoping that the note of teasing in his voice is obvious, but Chris has an entirely serious expression on his face.  
   
"Come here," he murmurs, lifting his chin to indicate that Tom should stand.  
   
A sort of giddiness takes over Tom's body, ridiculous for a man of his age really, and he wipes his hands on the cloth hanging out of his apron pocket before slowly rising to his feet.  
   
Still with that serious expression, Chris nudges Tom's stool out of the way and steps closer into his space. The motion forces Tom to turn so that his back is resting against his work bench and when Chris kisses him, large hands encompassing Tom's cheeks, he's glad of having something to rest his weight on because his knees just-about buckle.  
   
He grasps at Chris' shoulder for support and parts his lips, deepening the kiss. It's infinitely better than their first kiss, something about the warm familiarity of the bakery and the knowledge that they're both entirely sober, not bolstered by alcohol but rather by genuine attraction.  
   
As if of their own accord Tom's hands move down the narrowing slope from Chris' wide shoulders to the base of his spine, fingers bumping on the waistband of the tidy jeans he wears for work. Seemingly pleased, Chris nudges his hips forwards into Tom's. An invitation.  
   
Sliding his hands downward those last few inches, to dig his fingertips into the meat of Chris' arse through the denim, doesn't even require thought, and Chris moans into his mouth.  
   
He kisses Tom with the same voracity as he eats Tom's cakes; like nothing else in the world could possibly matter as much or give him greater pleasure.  
   
Dipping, he grasps the back of Tom's thighs and lifts him with startling ease onto the workbench, narrowly avoiding depositing him on a small pile of flour. Tom gasps, unable to resist hooking his legs around the back of Chris' thighs.  
   
Chris slides his fingers into Tom's hair and uses them to tip his head back, planting hot kisses down his throat with an occasional flash of tongue. Tom isn't sure he knew how to kiss like that when he was eighteen.  
   
Just as Chris' mouth meets the collar of Tom's shirt and he begins to nuzzle his way past it, Tom reaches down to steady himself on the work top and puts his hand directly into the greased bread tin.  
   
"Chris, Chris," he gasps, pushing gently at his shoulders to dislodge his mouth. "This isn't hygienic."  
   
Mouth open against Tom's throat, Chris breathes out a short laugh. He plants one last kiss to the skin there before stepping back.  
   
"Sorry," he says, although he doesn't really look it. "Got carried away."  
   
Shuffling down off the table, Tom steps immediately into his space and kisses softly at his mouth. "It's okay, me too."  
   
He likes the way Chris' tongue flicks out across his lips, like he's chasing the taste of Tom's kiss. Moving back to his work bench to carry on greasing the tin is a challenge when he'd rather abandon his work in favour of kissing Chris some more, but he does have a business to run.  
   
"So," Chris says, pretending to inspect his machine for faults. His eyes flash across to Tom once before he looks back, trying for casual when he continues, "Would you be open to having dinner with me some time?"  
   
 _Every day for the rest of my life_ , Tom thinks, but thankfully he manages to say, "Sounds nice."  
   
Chris beams at him, flicking one of the cups so that it wobbles excitedly to and fro. "Good," he says, just as the bell rings above the door out front.  
   
Chris ambles outside, pressing the heel of his hand against the bulge in his jeans right before disappearing around the corner.  
   
"Morning, what can I get you?" He says, sounding entirely professional.  
   
Tom leans in the doorway to observe him; the way he interacts with customer, the brightness he brings to the place. The guy points to something on the bottom row and, with a smile, Chris slides the glass across and reaches for the tongs.  
   
It's then, as he bends down to reach for the item, that Tom notices the floury handprints on the arse of his jeans.  
   
-  
   
Tom doesn't notice that he's whistling until David slaps two hands down on the bench in front of him, nearly dislodging three cupcakes from their seats in Chris' machine.  
   
"You're doing it again."  
   
Pressing his lips together, Tom tries not to smile. It's been a week since Chris' birthday and, according to David, Tom has become 'annoyingly happy' in that time. He doesn't have any intention of apologising; if waking up with a smile on his face and having the occasional whistle is annoying then David will just have to deal with it.  
   
Grumbling, David heads over to the oven to poke about at the large base cake inside. "It's like clockwork. Four o'clock every day and you start whistling some sappy song. He might not even come today."  
   
Tom shrugs. He's not going to say it out loud but he fully expects to see Chris, because all week he's stopped by to say hello on his way home. And if sometimes those hellos turn into impromptu, hands-above-clothes kissing sessions then who is Tom to complain?  
   
He doesn't say any of that, of course, and David continues to grumble to himself while he checks the temperature of the ovens. Tom doesn't catch everything he says but, as the bell above the door rings and Tom stands up to meet Chris outside, he hears David say, "I'm here every day too and I don't get kisses _or_ free cakes."  
   
-  
   
Some part of him wants to keep the whole thing at this level; wholesome and sweet, stolen kisses in the back room in the afternoons and text messages late at night before bed. The other part of him couldn't disagree more about wholesome and sweet. The part of Tom that can't look at his bed without imagining Chris in it and gets hard at the merest brush of his fingers.  
   
Tom's war with himself doesn't last that long, because just two weeks into seeing each other Chris convinces Tom to invite him over.  
   
Living with his parents doesn't afford Chris a lot of freedom at home and Tom has staunchly refused to do anything beyond kissing in the bakery, so that only leaves them Tom's flat.  
   
It's kind of small, since he put pretty much all of his savings into the bakery, but Chris seems to like it. He pokes around the living room looking at pictures and trinkets along the fireplace before turning to Tom, backpack still slung over his shoulder, and says brightly, "Hey, do you have a TV in your bedroom?"  
   
Tom doesn't, and so they end up watching the DVD Chris brought in the living room.  
   
"Coriolanus," Chris says proudly, brandishing the cover. "The Ralph Fiennes one, because you like Shakespeare and I like gun fights and according to the internet this has both."  
   
Tom feels oddly touched by the gesture, watching Chris with a fond smile as he crawls over to the TV and slots the DVD in. He's not sure if Chris is wiggling his arse around on purpose but he appreciates the view all the same.  
   
What he sees of the film is a very good adaptation, but they don't make it much further than a third of the way through before Chris begins to nuzzle at his neck. It would probably be funny, making out like school kids on the sofa, if it wasn't so hot. It's only taken Chris two weeks to work out where to touch and kiss Tom to have him a writhing mess, and so the film becomes nothing but a background drone as they sink down onto the couch cushions.  
   
"Is this okay?" Chris breathes between kisses, and Tom thinks at first that he's talking about missing the movie until he feels Chris' hands sliding up beneath his shirt.  
   
He nods, feeling warm fingertips gliding along his stomach, his ribs, gathering the material of his shirt as they go. He isn't ordinarily self-conscious about his body - he cycles to and from work every day and makes sure to eat well outside of work - but Chris is so fitness conscious that Tom has a moment of minor panic.  
   
"What?" Chris whispers, noticing the sudden tension. He moves his thumbs in gentle circles beneath Tom's ribs. "Come on, it's supposed to be me who's nervous, not you."  
   
It hadn't occurred to Tom that Chris could possibly have anything to be nervous about, looking the way he does and seeming so confident. "Why would you be nervous?"  
   
Chris shrugs a little, awkwardly, backing off to hold himself over Tom with a hand either side of his head. He offers a wobbly smile. "I'm just going on instinct here, I haven't got...you know, I haven't done this. I've thought about it a lot, but about half the time in my head I mess it up."  
   
He bites his lip, the dimples in his cheeks pronounced by the action, and Tom can't help turning his face to kiss gently at his wrist, just for contact. He wants to tell him that this is difficult to mess up, that he can't do anything wrong, but he decides instead to ease Chris' nerves without words.  
   
"Sit up," he says, pushing lightly at Chris' shoulders until he sits properly on the sofa with his feet planted on the ground. He doesn't let go of Tom's wrists, almost as if he's afraid that Tom has changed his mind about them having sex, but then his eyes widen when he realises that Tom is slipping down to his knees.  
   
"Uh, Tom..." he says, voice shaking, sucking in a breath when Tom reaches for the button of his jeans. "Tom are you going to-"  
   
His voice cracks, breaking off the word as Tom's deft fingers find their way inside his open fly.  
   
"Yeah," Tom nods, pushing his nervousness to the back if his mind in favour of making Chris feel good. He wets his lips as their eyes meet, finding that Chris is focused on him intently, chest rising and falling quickly. "Is that okay?"  
   
Eyebrows lifting, Chris nods slowly. "Are you kidding? About half of my dreams start this way."  
   
Deciding not to focus on that, Tom encourages Chris to lift his hips so that he can tug his jeans down his thighs enough for his underwear to follow, and then he reaches up to slip his fingertips beneath the elasticated waistband. Chris' stomach jumps, his breath hitching, and then he lifts his hips again.  
   
There's a wet spot forming, Chris' hardness apparent against the material, and Tom feels his mouth water.  
   
When he finally tugs the material down he does it slowly, almost like he's teasing them both, savouring the reveal of first the tip of Chris' cock; promisingly thick, wet and pink where it peeks out from beneath his foreskin, and then the shaft; smooth but for the nice fat vein that runs its length.  
   
His balls are big too, and it's obvious that he's trimmed and neatened his pubic hair as if he was expecting to get naked tonight. Tom would tease him about it, maybe, if he wasn't so focused on admiring Chris' body.  
   
It's genuinely the most aesthetically pleasing penis he's ever seen outside of porn; about average length but nice and heavy in his hand, head already shiny with pre-cum.  
   
"Look at you," he whispers, flashing his eyes up to meet Chris', and when he strokes from base to tip Chris lets out a shaky moan, letting his head fall back onto the sofa and squeezing his eyes shut.  
   
His thighs shake as Tom keeps up the rhythm with his fist, eyes flashing between Chris' pretty cock and his prettier face all twisted in pleasure. He's not going to last long, Tom thinks, but that's okay.  
   
Tugging the foreskin back, he kneels up enough to hunch over Chris' jeans where they're caught between his knees and, dipping his head, swipes his tongue across the crown of Chris' cock. Unintentionally Chris thrusts upwards, his cockhead slipping against the flat of Tom's tongue, and both of them moan in sync.  
   
"Sorry, sorry," Chris whispers, reaching down to knuckle at Tom's cheek with his eyes heavy-lidded and glazed. "I wasn't expecting-"  
   
Before he can finish Tom kisses wetly at the tip before parting his lips and enveloping the entire head in the wet heat of his mouth. It's good, salty-sour against his taste buds, and when Tom swirls his tongue Chris hisses and curls his hands into fists at his sides.  
   
The power has always been Tom's favourite part of giving head; the knowledge that he can make his partner writhe and moan and shake, that he has control of their pleasure. With Chris it's different right away. He never expected to experience intimacy with Chris, though it always crept at the outskirts of his mind whenever they were alone together he never thought he'd get to have it.  
   
Widening his lips to take more, to feel Chris' thickness against the meat of his tongue, he tries to concentrate on his breathing. He wants it to be so good that Chris thinks about it for the rest of his life.  
   
Perhaps selfishly, he hopes that he's right about being Chris' first. He wants to be his first everything.  
   
When it becomes too hard to breathe through his nose he pulls off, stroking at Chris' spit-slick cock, watching as Chris' abdomen shifts and tightens as he shallowly thrusts up into Tom's fist.  
   
He's sweaty already, his hairline damp and the hollow of his throat shining in the light. A visual comes unbidden to Tom's mind of lying beneath him and watching beads of sweat drip down his forehead as he fucks roughly into Tom, of leaning up to kiss at Chris' salty-damp jaw and bite at his mouth.  
   
"Feels good?" He asks, enjoying the way Chris keens in response and jerks his head in a nod. His eyes are barely open, his fists gripping at the material of his jeans where they sit just above his knees.  
   
Dipping his head, fist still working the tip with twists and strokes, Tom lifts Chris' balls with his other hand and laves his tongue against the skin.  
   
"Oh my god," Chris grunts, mouth open as he sucks in shallow breaths. Tom is pretty sure that even if Chris has been sucked off before he's never had it quite like this, and the thought thrills him. "Are you real?" Chris breathes, reaching to grip at Tom's hair.  
   
It's hard not to laugh, Chris sounds so delirious, and so Tom lifts his mouth and sucks him in again, this time as deep as he can. The most pleasing sound gurgles up out of Chris' throat like he can't stand how good it feels, and he shoves up that little bit too far and almost makes Tom gag.  
   
"Oh, fuck," he groans, petting at Tom's hair again. "Sorry, it feels good when you- I can't, I think I might-"  
   
He doesn't carry on, biting at his tongue and snapping his mouth shut. Rendering him essentially speechless feels like an achievement in itself, but Tom is determined to give him the best orgasm of his life.  
   
Using his fist to stroke the length he concentrates mostly on the head, flicking his tongue against the slit to taste the copious pre-cum now pumping out of him before dipping down to follow the thick vein. He's enjoying himself so much, despite the ache in his jaw, that he's almost disappointed when Chris tenses up, balls drawing up towards his body, and comes.  
   
He makes a guttural sound, almost like he's in pain, and his fingers tighten uncomfortably in Tom's hair, and he doesn't let go until he's emptied fully onto Tom's tongue. He swallows, mostly because it seems polite, swiping the head with small kitten-licks that make Chris jump as he pulls off.  
   
Afterwards he rests his chin on Chris' denim-covered knee and runs his fingertips up and down his thighs, enjoying the sleepy calm that settles over them as he relaxes. It takes a moment for Chris to open his eyes, his breathing slowing in increments, and even though he looks dazed and overwhelmed he reaches for Tom's face.  
   
Coming up onto his knees Tom is surprised to be pulled into a kiss, slow and languid, deep like Chris is chasing his own taste. His own hardness presses uncomfortably against the edge if the sofa as he's pulled in closer but he only registers it on a subconscious level, far too wrapped up in the kiss to think much of anything else.  
   
Even once they've stopped kissing they stay where they are, simply resting their foreheads together and sharing contented breath. Fingers overlapping at the base of Tom's spine, like he's loathe to let him go, Chris holds him in place.  
   
"Want to hear something dorky?" He says quietly.  
   
Tom sits back on his heels, adjusting himself for comfort, and nods even as Chris' eyes follow the movement of his hand.  
   
Looking embarrassed, Chris glances away and closes his eyes, shaking his head. It's startling how quickly he goes from sexy to adorable, and Tom can barely contain the urge to touch him again.  
   
"Tell me," he says, resting his hands on Chris' knees again. The material of his jeans is still bunched there, his still-softening cock exposed where it rests against his thigh, and Tom feels so utterly fond of him.  
   
Blushing, Chris looks like he regrets offering to share. "Don't laugh, okay? It's kind of childish. I wish I hadn't said anything."  
   
"I might laugh," Tom says honestly, eyes bright. "But you still have to tell me."  
  
With a roll of his eyes, Chris smiles without showing his teeth and prods at Tom's shoulder. "I wished for you when I blew out the candles on my birthday cake."  
   
And Tom remembers it perfectly, the way Chris' eyes had opened and slid right to his as the wicks glowed with orange embers. Maybe it is childish, and maybe it's nonsense, but Tom finds that he's entirely charmed by the hopefulness of it.  
   
"That is dorky," he nods, climbing up to sit beside Chris and reaching for the DVD remote. "But maybe you're onto something."  
   
After all, if he's going to believe in the magic of anything it might as well be the magic of baked goods, right?

 


End file.
